


Gone to Silver Glass

by kailthia



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Bilbo has no skills with kids ok?, Family, Fili and Kili are silly, Multi, background Gimli/Legolas, confusion?, kind of mpreg?, post-LOTR, semi-canonical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1299334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kailthia/pseuds/kailthia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A spiritual sequel to Avelera's "No Heir of Durin," "Gone to Silver Glass" tells the story of Frodo Baggins' discovery of his unusual heritage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone to Silver Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avelera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/gifts).
  * Inspired by [No Heir of Durin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/686917) by [Avelera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera). 



> OK guys, I read Avelera's "No Heir of Durin" so much that I wrote this for her. Understanding this properly requires that you've read "No Heir of Durin," so if you haven't and you want to read this, go do so now or this will make *no sense whatsoever.*
> 
> As a side note, this fic deals with *complicated gender issues.* So if you're not comfortable with that, this is a good time to walk away. "Gone to Silver Glass" works under the headcannon that dwarven sex (ie what equipment you have) gender (the social stuff attached to sexuality) are distinct. So characters' "outside" sex and their "inside" sex don't always match up. This is important for plot reasons. I tried to get my pronouns right, but if you think there's a problem, talk to me. Straight white girl that I am, I am quite willing to correct any and all errors made in ignorance when dealing with issues of race, gender, etc.

From _The Return of the King_ , Book 6 Chapter 9, _The Grey Havens_ : “And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country a swift sunrise.”

But Frodo Baggins never reached the white shores of Valinor. Almost as soon as he came into sight of it, he passed out in a dead faint – and disappeared before hitting the deck of the ship. The only person who looked truly surprised was Bilbo, who squawked and ran over to where his so-called ‘nephew’ had been standing. Elrond, who had turned to look at Frodo soon before his disappearance, cocked an eyebrow at Gandalf.

“So you were right, Mithrandir. Young Master Baggins was indeed called to the Halls of Aulë,” he said, voice smooth, but with an undertone of questioning surprise.

The old wizard smiled gently. “I suspected as much.”

Bilbo looked sharply between Gandalf and Elrond. “What are you talking about? What’s happened to Frodo?”

Gandalf sighed. “Frodo has been called to the Halls of his Ancestors.”

Bilbo paled as a flash of realization hit him. “So … he’s gone to his father’s people?” Gandalf nodded. After a moment, the wizard’s eyes narrowed. 

“You did tell him of his full heritage, Bilbo?”

Bilbo looked ill. Gandalf sighed.

“You didn’t tell him.” Bilbo nodded mutely. “Well, he will know soon enough. Though I expect it would have gone better if you had simply told Frodo before his lack of knowledge of his … family situation became problematic,” he harrumphed.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

            Frodo came to wakefulness quickly, though with a blaring headache, blurry eyes, and a full-body ache that made him wish he hadn’t regained consciousness. He was unsure of what had happened – he had been on the boat to Valinor, and then he had felt a sort of whooshing, and had blacked out. And now he was flat on his back on what felt like stone, and was surrounded by people he couldn’t see because his eyes weren’t working properly. They didn’t seem to be Big Folk, and almost all of them were bearded to some degree. So likely dwarves. They appeared to be arguing over him. Frodo tried to speak, to ask where he was and who the people fussing over him were, but his capability for speech appeared to be compromised, though his unintelligible outburst made him the center of attention. Someone – Frodo got the impression of a mass of white hair – was poking at him, apparently in an attempt to see if he was alright, and that was all Frodo was aware of before passing back into unconsciousness once more. 

            When he woke again, he was in a stone bed in an unknown stone room, dressed in strange sleeping clothes – a little too large, but serviceable – and he was being watched by two young-looking dwarves. They were seated at a small table, which held a covered tray, shoved to the side, and one of the checkered boards used in several common board games in the middle, with an obviously half-played set of some unknown game upon it. Frodo got a good look at his apparent minders, wondering why they seemed familiar. They seemed to be staring at him just as intently, with the dark-haired one occasionally poking the blonde. Then something clicked in Frodo’s memory.

“You’re Fíli and Kíli, right?”

They nodded in unison, smiled, and bowed. “Indeed we are. At your service, cousin.”

Frodo frowned. “Cousin? What are you talking about?”

Fíli and Kíli looked at each other apprehensively.

“Did we get the word in Westron right?” Fíli asked Kíli worriedly. He turned to Frodo. “Is there a special word among hobbits for family members who share grandparents? I know that family relationships are very important in the Shire, but Westron can be very non-descriptive at times.”

Frodo was bewildered. “The closest term for cousins sharing grandparents is ‘first cousins.’ But why does that matter – it’s not like I could feasibly be related to _you_. You’re dwarves. Not that that’s a bad thing to be, mind, but I am a hobbit of the Shire and a Baggins of Bag End and most definitively do not have any dwarven relatives.”

Fíli and Kíli looked at one another, then at Frodo, then back at each other. They swallowed heavily.

“This is bad,” said Fíli worriedly. “We have to talk to Uncle.”

“This is really bad,” agreed Kíli. “Toss you to see who stays?” The younger Prince pulled out a rock that was noticeably lighter on one side. Fíli shook his head.

“You stay, Kíli. Uncle’s not going to take this well as it is, and you’re likelier to make it worse.”

Kíli sulked, but acquiesced. Fíli left the room with a concerned expression on his face, and Kíli turned to Frodo. “So, mister Boggins, ….”

oOoOoOoOoOo

            Thorin, Balin, Fíli, Frerin, and Thráin (who had demanded to be included, because he was concerned about the fate of his poor, confused, doesn’t-know-about-his-dwarven-heritage dwobbit grandson, _Thorin_ ) were huddled around the corner from the room that Frodo had been placed in in the Halls of Mahal in the greater Halls of Mandos. Several others had wished to be part of the initial welcoming committee, but, circumstances being what they were, the group had been whittled down to five. Kíli was apparently not doing a very good job of keeping Frodo quiet and occupied with small talk, as there was currently an impressive shouting match going on.

Frerin snickered. “Mahal’s forges, Thorin, your son definitely has your temper.” Thorin absentmindedly hit Frerin on the back of the head, making his golden braids bounce. “Shut _up_ , little brother.”

Thráin sighed. “So what are we going to do? Frodo is obviously unaware of his heritage, and doesn’t know where he is, why he’s here, or who we are in relation to him.”

Balin looked at his hands, then up at the dwarves around him. “I should approach him first, I believe.” Seeing the looks of consternation, he went on to explain, “I know most of his history of us. I knew that he had been adopted by Bilbo’s cousins, but I had always assumed that the lad knew, or would be told eventually, that he was Bilbo’s, and would get the whole tale, muddled as it was.”

Balin suddenly became the center of attention. “You knew?” whispered Thorin, face bloodless. “And you never said anything?”

Balin shrugged. “I didn’t know everything, Thorin. And it seemed for the best that the lad go to the cousins. Bilbo … wasn’t quite himself after the Quest. And, as he said himself, he really had no idea of what to do with a baby.”

Some of the tension left Thorin’s body. “It’s done now.” He cocked an ear down the hallway. “The yelling seems to have stopped. Balin, if you would?”

Balin nodded, and walked down the hallway, with an expression of composed determination on his face that was vaguely reminiscent of the Battle of Azanulbizar and the Battle of the Five Armies. The rest of them sidled a bit closer to the room, but kept a bit of distance. The Line of Durin was known for its temper tantrums, and any child of Bilbo Baggins was likely to come out with weird things every once in a while.

            Kíli joined them after a moment, evidently sent out by Balin for a modicum of privacy. Several minutes of quiet talk from inside the room followed (punctuated by a bout of yelling from which little could be discerned save for a repeated wail of ‘But why did he need to _lie_ to me?’), and then several moments of silence punctuated by sobs. After some time, Balin stuck his head out and gestured for the rest of the group to enter. Frodo sat on the bed, head in his hands, face blotchy, looking more than a little stunned. He looked up as the dwarves entered, his eyes bright with tears, and looked down quickly.

Thorin swallowed heavily. Before him sat someone who, by first look, was extremely hobbitish. The delicate points of the ears, the slight frame, the overlarge, yet heavily callused feet, the curl of the hair, all spoke to a child of the Shire and the kindly West. Less obvious clues were there as well – the clothes (he could almost hear Bilbo complain about his lost buttons and his lack of handkerchiefs), the comparative softness of hands that had only seen a moderate amount of work, and very little of it to do with weapons.

Yet the traces of dwarven ancestry was there as well. Frodo was taller than the norm for a hobbit. Thorin could see traces of himself in Frodo’s blue eyes, the black of his hair, and a sense of strength, of _substance_ (for lack of a better term) that was lacking in the typical slightness of hobbit-kind.

“How do you feel?” asked Thorin. He was surprised by how soft his voice was, given his inner turmoil.

Frodo shrugged, clearly rather unsettled himself. “I’ve been worse.”

Frerin snorted. “Óin said that you were as beaten up as if you’d been clobbered by a cave troll. I highly doubt that you’ve been worse.”

Frodo rolled his eyes in Frerin’s direction (it seemed his vision and hearing were improving, but still suboptimal) and felt at his ribs, wincing as he hit bruises. “From experience, this isn’t as bad as a cave troll. Worse than when I lost my finger, though.” He looked at his right hand and started. “Well, that’s a sight. My finger’s back.”

Thráin frowned. “It is … standard for any who have been injured in their earthly lives to come to us healed in body and in mind. Though … if it is not too much to ask, how came you by these injuries?”

Frodo looked between Thorin and Thráin, made an obvious connection (the two were clearly close kin in terms of look and bearing), and swallowed. Looked around the room, and asked, “How much do you know about the War of the Ring?”

“Comparatively little; the knowledge of who came to us during and since deals mostly with the realms of the dwarves,” Thorin answered. “Though Dáin spoke of a Quest, to destroy the Ring of Power. Gimli son of Gloín went to represent the Dwarves.” His brows drew together. “There were four hobbits on this Quest. Were you …?”

“Aye. Myself, two kinsmen, and my companion Samwise. In the end, Sam and I finished the Quest in the Mountain of Fire as the rest of our party stood as diversions. It was … not a kind journey.” Frodo’s face was shadowed with old pain not lightened by time.

“How did you meet a cave troll? They tend to favor the deep places of the earth,” inquired Kíli.

“We were crossing the mountains. Gandalf wanted to go over, but we were turned back over the Redhorn Pass, and when Gimli suggested we go under, take the route through the Mines, it … seemed a good idea.” Frodo’s head was low and his voice soft; it was clear that this was an unhappy memory for him. Not only him – most of those in the room with him had bad memories of the Mines of Moria, Khazad-dûm of old, first great kingdom of the dwarven race.

“We went, and were met by the Watcher in the Water. It pulled down the star-gates, killing itself in the process. There were so many dead inside … with the orcs chasing us we could not give them the rites. We were almost through when Pippin – my younger cousin, Peregrin Took – sent a corpse down a well in the Records Room and brought the orcs down on us in earnest.”

Thorin snorted, his shock temporarily alleviated. “A Took. Of course.” He made a note to see if Frodo remembered the corpse having any particular features of note so he could tell its erstwhile owner what had happened to him or her.

Frodo smiled faintly. “Merry and Pippin both are half Took. It caused problems, yes, but can be beneficial.”

Fíli nudged Kíli in the ribs. “Like the trolls.”

Frodo nodded. “Like the trolls. And trolls, apparently, are another Took problem. Pippin actually had a troll fall on him at the Battle of the Morannon. He almost died.”

“A troll fell on him. And he lived.” The disbelief in Balin’s tone was evident.

Frodo shrugged. “He told me later that he didn’t want to die before making it home. Merry says that Pippin just wanted to one-up him for helping to kill the Witch-King of Angmar.”

“A hobbit helped kill the _Witch-King of Angmar_?” Thorin asked.

“Well, to be fair, Merry had a bit of a bone to pick with it – that wraith nearly killed me on Weathertop.”

Dead silence.

“A. Wraith. Nearly. Killed. You. And. You. Just. Shrug. It. Off.”

A level look greeted Thorin’s pronouncement. “I have seen the Balrog in the depths of Khazad-dûm, seen three Maia die, and carried the One Ring across Middle-Earth. I hope you’ll forgive a certain amount of disenchantment.”

“Then, if I might ask, what killed you?” All eyes turned to Thráin, who had a questioning look on his face. “After all you’ve faced, surely …”

“That self-same tiredness. The Quest quite literally sucked the life from me. I was … done.”

The silence that followed this comment stretched on and on. Thorin finally decided to break it. “You look tired. You should sleep. We’ll leave you to your rest.” Standing, Thorin motioned for the other dwarves to precede him out of the room. He looked at Frodo. “Sleep well.” Frodo nodded, blinking owlishly against the light. Thorin left, and as he went to his own chambers, he wondered what he was going to do about his wayward, unknowingly ignorant son. He didn’t know how much Bilbo had told the lad, but it clearly wasn’t enough. And now here he was, almost completely ignorant of his heritage, alone in heart if not in fact. 

_Damn it, Bilbo, why couldn’t you have told him about me, about us?_

oOoOoOoOoOo

            Thorin woke to repeated pokes in the ribs from his little brother. After reaching out an arm to absentmindedly thwak Frerin in the back of the head, he got out of bed and prepared himself for his day, noticing that Frerin was almost dancing with barely-contained news. Knowing that Frerin would be jumpy until he disbursed whatever it was, he decided to ask and get it over with.

“What is it?”

“Your lad is cooking, Thorin. You never said that he could cook.”

Thorin grunted. “Frerin, come on. I never actually met him. Óin pulled him from my corpse, almost too premature to live. I know _nothing_ about the lad save what he has told me.”

Frerin turned serious. “I’m sorry.”

Thorin clasped Frerin’s shoulder. “It’s alright.” It wasn’t, but he could not change the past. Smiling softly, he dug an elbow into Frerin’s ribs. “And why are you surprised about Hobbit cooking? You’ve heard me talk about its quality often enough.”

Frerin rolled his eyes, a study in younger-sibling sass. “Yes, but I always discounted your comments about your hobbit-burglar as the ravings of a dwarrow who lost their One too soon.”

Thorin sighed. “There is that. But even if you didn’t believe me, Balin and Nori and Ori backed me up often enough.”

Frerin giggled. “Then we should hurry up. There’s a lot of other people already there.”

“Let’s go, then.”  

Frerin had been right – there were several dwarves in the kitchen/dining area that Thorin’s family favored. Frodo had evidently been up for some time cooking; there were many empty and partially-empty plates of food lying around, and Frodo’s face showed the marks of one who was fighting off bad dreams and memories through work. Thorin could commiserate – it was something that he had done often enough after his death, when he had had time to consider exactly how badly he had erred.

              Thorin saw a plate of the small, quick-rising biscuits that Bilbo had been fond of making for breakfast on the Quest, and headed for them. Grabbing a handful, he ate one as he took a seat next to Balin, who was happily eating some sort of fruit-honey-porridge-monstrosity, somehow managing not to get any of it in his beard. By the time that Thorin had finished eating, Frodo had somehow managed to disappear, likely taking advantage of his hobbitish sneaky feet to make an escape. Thorin couldn’t fault him – the whole situation was rather overwhelming.

oOoOoOoOoOo

            Fíli had come to Thorin in the late afternoon, saying that they had been looking for Frodo (to keep an eye on him, mostly, as the transition to death was not taken well by all, and Frodo had more cause for bitterness than most), but that they had been unable to find him.

“How many are looking?” Thorin asked, eyes blazing, stomach roiling with fear. His son – through blood, though not by inclination – was missing, and they had not _told_ him?

Fíli recoiled a little bit at the intensity in Thorin’s gaze. “Most of the family. Great-grandfather told me to find you.”

Thorin’s thoughts span wildly out of control. He forced himself into calmness. _If I were a dwobbit (and why, Father, did you have to come up with such a horrid name for what my son is?), where would I go? Where would Bilbo’s boy go, for surely the lad takes more after him than me._

The library. Bilbo had been quite close to the Brothers Ri on the Quest, and the two who now lived in the Halls (Ori having died in Moria and Nori had fallen afoul of a job as King’s Spymaster for Dáin a few years before the Ring War) could often be found in or around the library. Any child of Bilbo’s would have almost instinctively seen a library as a safe haven, and would have known that at least one safe figure was likely there from his trip to Moria. He would have to make sure that Frodo was taught Khâzdul, as most of the books in the library were in the ancestral tongue of the Dwarves – perhaps Balin would do it? He did not have the patience to teach that sort of thing.

Thorin began to move, navigating the path that would take him to the library quickest. Upon his arrival, he looked around, noticing that there were footprints through the ever-present layer of dust that Ori was perpetually moaning about. He followed them, noticing that Ori was napping on a table, head pillowed on a book.

The footsteps stopped at a large table that was well-illuminated by stand-lamps. Frodo was sitting at the table, sketching on paper with charcoal. Thorin noted that Frodo had chosen the seat that offered the best clear view of all the approaches to his table, and had Sting ( _when had Bilbo given the lad Sting, and how had he smuggled it into the Halls?_ ) close to hand.

Frodo himself was watching Thorin cautiously from under his bangs. Thorin took a seat next to the lad, looking over his drawing, which looked to be of –

“Is that Kheled-zâram?”

Frodo nodded. “Gimli very much wanted to see it after we passed through Moria. Sam and I accompanied him. It was lovely.”

Thorin nodded. “I have not seen it, but Balin has, and he says much the same.” He looked at Frodo askance. “If I may ask, why have you hidden yourself away to draw?”

Frodo sighed. “People are staring at me. I had enough of that after the war. It’s worse now, since I can’t understand very much of Khâzdul at all.”

“You understand a little bit?”

Frodo nodded. “Bilbo picked up a little bit on the Quest for Erebor – mostly curses and odds and ends. And then when I travelled with the Fellowship, Gimli taught me a bit more.”

Thorin’s eyes widened. “Gimli must have known.”

“In hindsight, yes, I believe so. I spoke to Gloín in Rivendell, and he definitely made the connection, and I think that that was why Gimli came with us in the first place. Gimli kept an eye on me when he could.”

“Good. Óin will be pleased.” Thorin turned back to the table and gestured to the drawings that nearly covered it. “Do you draw often?”

Frodo shrugged. “Often enough.” He grimaced. “I’m trying to get used to having all my fingers again by drawing and cooking and other small things. It doesn’t seem as much trouble as learning to live with nine, but I find myself clumsier than I would like.”

“It’s a common trouble for those who regain some part of themselves that they lost in life. It will pass in time.”

“I expected as much,” said Frodo with a shrug. He ruffled through the papers, digging two out after a moment.

“I thought I’d give these to Ori and Balin. Dori and Dwalin were part of the delegation from the Lonely Mountain for Aragorn’s coronation – Aragorn’s the Heir of Elendil, a Dunédan ranger.”

“It would please them a great deal. You will have to tell them how their kin fare in the land of the living.”

Frodo’s nose wrinkled, a gesture so reminiscent of Bilbo that it made Thorin’s heart clench. “As far as I can tell from Bilbo’s tales, Dori was his usual self. He attached himself to Pippin and mother-henned him no end until he was fully healed from his wounds at the Battle of the Morannon. I think that Pip reminded him of Bilbo – they both favor their Took heritage in terms of looks.”

Thorin snorted, and pointedly avoided the last part of Frodo’s statement. “Aye, that sounds like Dori. He fussed no end over Ori on the way to Erebor. And Dwalin?”

“Loud and argumentative. He … did not take it well when Gimli told him of his and Legolas’ relationship.”

“Gimli and Legolas’ relationship?”

Frodo nodded vigorously. “Aye, they’re together.” He noticed Thorin’s dark look. “Not you, too.” Seeing Thorin’s dark look zoning in on himself, Frodo rushed out, “You can hardly talk. I wouldn’t be alive … well, wouldn’t have been born … if there was a problem with - ”

Thorin shook his head and cut Frodo off. “It’s not that Gimli has chosen a non-dwarf that bothers me – that would be indeed hypocritical – but rather who he has chosen specifically. Legolas is the son of the traitor Thranduil.”

“And is a son his father?” asked Frodo hotly. “Legolas Thranduilion is stouthearted and brave. I know that the relationship between the Mountain and the Wood has suffered, and not without reason, but surely Legolas has earned the opportunity to be judged on his owned merits and not those of his sire!”

Thorin sighed. This was the most words he’d ever had with Frodo, and it was turning into an argument. And the lad argued like a mix of Balin and Bilbo, a fact that he might have been more pleased about if he wasn’t on the other side of the debate.

He closed his eyes and tried to reorder his thoughts, though he had a sinking feeling that he would be losing this argument. Bedamned sidestepping hobbit logic.

oOoOoOoOoOo

            A week had passed. Frodo was slowly settling in in the Halls of Mahal, and gradually getting to know his newfound family. He was slowly warming up to Thorin, though he was still as shy as a startled deer most of the time.

            As Thorin made his way down to breakfast, he saw Frodo sitting with Fíli and Kíli, explaining something to his nephews as they ate. Frodo had some of Bilbo’s tendency to gesture with whatever he had in his hands as he talked, but, as in most things, Frodo’s gestures showed an economy of movement that Thorin knew came from himself. He took a seat next to Fíli after taking his food, eating as he listened to Frodo’s story.

“… after I had bought the puzzle for Pippin and started to make my way back to the Houses of Healing, an elderly woman thought that I was a human child and started to accost me.” Frodo’s nose wrinkled. “I couldn’t convince her that I was a hobbit and not a local child. She was convinced that I was some errant eight-year-old spending his mother’s shopping money on toys.”

Fili looked confused. “How could she think you were a child?” He gestured to Frodo expansively. “I mean, the lack of beard is a bit confusing, but you definitely look adult in terms of bearing.”

“And your clothes would have given you away for sure,” piped in Kíli.

“Actually, no,” said Frodo. “All of my own clothes were in no state to be worn, so I was wearing human children’s clothing. I had my weapons and armor hidden under them, as well. And as far as I can tell, the proportions of Hobbit features are child-like to Men. The lack of beards and the comparatively high voices contribute greatly to this, I fear,” scowled Frodo. “As did the fact that I was still not entirely recovered from the Quest and was unable to just break free of her grasp and run.”

“How did you escape the citywoman’s grasp?” asked Thorin interestedly. He didn’t think that Frodo would have resorted to foul play, or been in any condition for it.

“Fortunately, Gimli came along and rescued me. Everyone recognized Gimli from his part in the Quest – he was the only Dwarf in the city until the delegation from Erebor arrived just before the coronation – and so the woman took him at his word and let me go.”

“Hopefully you took measures to avoid getting caught again in a similar fashion afterwards,” said Fíli.

Frodo nodded. “I got some proper clothes, and tried not to go out alone. It helped that I went out with recognizable figures, who made sure to loudly introduce me as ‘Frodo son of Drogo’ to people whenever we went out.”

Kíli wrinkled his nose. “Frodo son of Drogo?”

Frodo nodded. “I was adopted by cousins of Bilbo, Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck, and lived with them until they died when I was a tween.” He laughed softly. “So now I find myself with three fathers and a _very_ large extended family.”

Thorin smiled. As awkward as the whole situation was, Frodo seemed to have landed on his feet. As he listened to his son talk and joke with his nephews, Thorin’s heart swelled. He was proud of his boys.


End file.
